Darya

He hasn’t gotten fat, at least, but his face has changed: smoother somehow, the once-intriguing hint of ferret in his skull now emergent and distinctly unflattering. His hairline’s only just receding, but the color has dulled and it’s cut too close to bring out his curls.

He’s got a girlfriend who’s probably never even seen him the way she did back then, kicking hard toward the tape at the end of the 800. He never made it out of Flint. She supposes maybe he could yet.

Darya closes the Facebook tab carefully, as if he might hear the button click.